


a thousand years of feelings

by rangerhitomi



Series: radical dreamers [20]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Depression, M/M, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: Three lifetimes come with three times the baggage and three times the memories. Durbe is fixated on the past, Nasch is focused on the future. Maybe together they can find common ground.





	

He thinks he’s safely hidden in the library, surrounded on all sides by piles of thick tomes. A thousand years of history, of mathematics and science, of philosophy and religion and art and music and literature and politics and war, and he knows none of it. Some of it he wishes he had never bothered to learn; some of it gives him hope in progress. He not only needs to learn—he is painfully behind in his studies, painfully behind the other students in his year at this _high school_ —but his thirst for knowledge is unquenchable.

He thinks he’s safely hidden, hunkered down for a few hours of uninterrupted study, but _he_ finds Durbe anyway and sits across from him, folds his hands, stares.

Durbe tries to ignore Nasch’s gaze—no, no, he tries to remind himself, _Ryoga Kamishiro_ —but he only holds out for about two minutes before resigning himself to the fact that he can’t focus on geography when Nasch—Ryoga—is staring so intently at him Durbe thinks he might be staring straight into Durbe’s soul.

Finally Durbe sets down his book. “Can I help you?”

“Do you have your deck?”

 _Straightforward—_ that was the word he’d used to describe Ryoga Kamishiro back _then_ in Sargasso, when he’d praised the enemy he was seeking to kill, before he rediscovered the dearest friend he had ever known, before he rediscovered that the dearest friend was his most dangerous enemy. His straightforward nature hadn’t changed in the transformation from King Nasch to Barian Lord Nasch to Ryoga Kamishiro and back. He never skirted what was on his mind... and he never dueled unless he had a reason for it.

“I’m studying,” Durbe says lamely.

“You’ve been studying nonstop for eight and a half months, Durbe.”

“I have a thousand years of civilization to catch up on.”

“Shut up and get out your deck.”

Durbe does. Nasch doesn’t hold back; though the duel is fought without the augmented reality, Durbe can see the spirit of his cards responding to each of his plays. But his spirit pales in comparison to Nasch’s. Durbe is a decent duelist, of course—he had learned from the best—but of the seven former Barian Emperors, Durbe has the least interest in dueling. It’s always been that way.

“My attack takes you to 1800 life points,” Nasch declares quietly (at least Nasch realizes they are in a library). “The battle phase is over.”

“I have nothing to activate,” Durbe replies.

“Turn end.” Nasch watches Durbe draw, put the new card in his hand, and evaluate what card would best fit the situation. Nasch’s XYZ monsters are powerful, but surely… “Durbe.”

“Mm?” His spell card would come in handy at some point, but Holy Lightning Glorious Halo would be a better play immediately, Durbe decides, and he’s about to summon Holy Lightning-Books and use its effect when Nasch’s next question catches him off guard.

“Have you been seeing anyone?”

Durbe’s hand freezes on Books’ card. “Seeing… who?”

Nasch is slouched in his chair, staring not at the field but at the cards in his own hand. The necktie hanging from his school uniform is loose, and the top two buttons on his shirt are undone. “Like a professional.”

“Oh.” Durbe’s hand relaxes an inch. He is still learning modern human slang, but he is aware that “seeing someone” usually meant in a romantic way. “…no.” He activates the effect and, with three Holy Lightning monsters, is able to summon Glorious Halo. He easily takes a chunk of Nasch’s life points with its effect; they’re even now.

“I told you that you should.”

“I have no need for it.” Durbe gestures toward Nasch to indicate the end of his turn.

“Don’t try to tell me you haven’t been having nightmares.” Nasch makes no motion to draw a card. He’s staring at Durbe with narrowed eyes and tight lips; his king used to wear that expression when deeply frustrated. That, at least, has never changed.

“Are you going to make a move or will you forfeit your turn?” Durbe asks tonelessly.

Nasch slams his hand on the table; a girl at a nearby table casts him a dirty look. “Damn it, Durbe.”

Durbe looks up wearily. “What do you expect me to do, Nasch?”

Maybe it’s the use of _Nasch_ and not _Ryoga_ that softens the exchange, but Nasch’s clenched hands relax an inch and Nasch slumps back in his seat. The gods knew Durbe had tried using _Ryoga_ instead, because he had asked it of the other Barians, but the name had never felt right on Durbe’s tongue, not when the two of them had that _history_ , not when Durbe would whisper _Nasch_ , _Nasch_ and the name would slip from his lips so effortlessly, so perfectly.

“I told you not to call me that.” Nasch is back to staring at the cards in his hand.

“I can’t help it,” Durbe whispers, and he wants nothing more than for this duel to end, for Nasch to leave, to be able to lose himself in the texts surrounding him. He would surrender the duel if Nasch wouldn’t refuse to accept a forfeit—he never let Durbe surrender back _then_ —but just as he was thinking of a way to cut this short, Nasch places his cards on the table and reaches for Durbe’s extra deck.

There are only a few cards in that pile, and Nasch easily finds the card he’s looking for. He turns it around so Durbe can see it. Durbe’s breath catches in his chest.

“Out of all of us,” Nasch says quietly, “you’re the one who’s most deeply stuck in your past.”

Durbe reaches for it, fingers trembling, but Nasch slips it into the pocket of his jacket instead and begins collecting his cards. “Take a walk with me, Durbe.” He stands and pushes his chair in. Several people are staring at them as Nasch shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away.

“Nasch—”

A few people shake their heads and cast him angry looks, but his eyes are fixed on Nasch as he hurriedly scoops his cards up and abandons his pile of books. He catches up at the elevator; Nasch doesn’t acknowledge him, even when Durbe whispers for Nasch to return his card and he has to endure a silent elevator ride to the ground floor, wincing at the sudden lurch at the end, which is nothing like the exhilarating drop of his stomach as he swoops low on Mahha’s back.

Though they’re the same height, Nasch’s stride seems longer, and Durbe half-jogs to keep up with him, whispering pleas to return his card, but Nasch ignores him still as they leave the library and enter the bright, mid-afternoon sun and crisp breeze. It doesn’t seem to bother Nasch but Durbe squints and occasionally shields his face from the light, but even now Nasch is silent and Durbe has practically given up on getting him to speak. Durbe remembers a time Nasch had refused to speak to him for three days after finding a young maid sitting on Durbe’s lap at the tavern; he had refused to listen to Durbe’s repeated attempts to explain that she flirted with _all_ the soldiers, _all_ the time, only to come to the apparent conclusion at the end of those three days that Durbe was a drunkard and needed to scale back on his alcohol consumption or Nasch would see him in the stockades for a few days while he sobered up. (Durbe avoided the tavern for a week.)

But that time had ended with an apology on Durbe’s behalf, which Nasch accepted with a kiss, and Durbe doubted this time would end quite so memorably.

Nasch comes to an abrupt stop on a footbridge overlooking the river and Durbe, lost in his thoughts, bumps into him. His hands are still buried in his pockets, his shoulders slouched. He doesn’t hold himself the way Nasch had, straight-backed and regal, but there’s familiarity in the shadowed scowl on his face as he stares down at the water while the late autumn sun shines on his back.

Now, Durbe thinks, Nasch will speak to him.

“Please return Mahha’s card to me,” he says quietly, holding out a hand.

“Mahha’s card,” Nasch repeats, and when he finally looks at Durbe, Durbe is too overwhelmed by the intensity and the _memories_ and looks away.

Falling for Nasch was like falling into the ocean; once Durbe had thought he could swim, the current swept him back under again to drown him in its endless depths.

The card is in his face now, Nasch holding it tightly between his thumb and forefinger. “Read this, Durbe.”

He can’t even look at it. “Nasch—”

“Read it.” Nasch shoves it a little closer. “Read the card name.”

He knows what Nasch is doing, and _gods_ does it hurt. “Number 44,” he whispers, voice barely audible over the sound of the water and of the traffic on the street behind them, and he doesn’t know why Nasch has brought him here, when what Durbe needs is to be alone with him.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Sky Pegasus,” Durbe finishes, a little louder.

“Where on this card does it say _Mahha_ , Durbe?”

It doesn’t.

Nasch shoves the card in his pocket again. He probably notices Durbe’s crying before Durbe does, because he grabs Durbe by the arm and pulls him along the bridge, his permanent scowl sufficient to keep people from staring, or if they are, they do so discreetly. Nasch leads him off the bridge, down a little hill, until they’re standing in the shadow of the bridge where the sounds above them are muted and Durbe can release his pent-up grief in peace next to the rhythmic sighs of the river.

Nasch watches, though now that they’re alone, the scowl has been replaced by a thoughtful frown as he looks down at Durbe, kneeling in the dirt as he cries silently, and—

—it’s been such a long time since he’s let himself cry.

“How long?” Nasch asks, because he always knows that outside of Durbe’s dreams of death and betrayal and pain, Durbe doesn’t cry.

Durbe takes a minute to think about it. “How long since Yuma… since the Numeron Code brought us back?”

“Nine and a half months,” Nasch replies with complete understanding, and Durbe doesn’t need to elaborate any more than that. “It’s not healthy to bottle this up, Durbe. You’ll kill yourself out of grief.”

“I’ve already died twice,” Durbe says bitterly, “what’s once more?”

Nasch sits next to him. “I can’t help you overcome this alone, Durbe. There’s no shame in talking to someone who’s trained to—”

“The way you did, I’m sure, when your fake parents died, or when Merag was unconscious for months?” Durbe regrets these words almost instantly, and Nasch blinks slowly as though daring to believe that Durbe had even uttered them.

“No, I didn’t,” he says in a strained sort of voice, “which is probably why I was bitter and angry and had no friends until Yuma came along.” He snorts softly. “Then again, if Yuma can attempt to befriend even a piece of shit like Vector, what does that say about me?” He exhales. “I don’t want to see you end up the same way I did. You’re too good a person for that.”

Durbe shakes his head and stares at the water sloshing up onto the rocky shoreline. “What would I even say, Nasch? They would think me delusional, talking about a past life where I was a knight on a flying horse who watched everyone he loved die before being murdered by his former friends and reborn as a—a crystalline… demon thing that was also murdered in front of its best friends and then reborn a third time as a chronically depressed and asthmatic high school student. If you had heard this a year ago, would it have seemed plausible to you?”

“No,” Nasch says simply, and he leans back on one arm. “Not until I lived it.”

“How the hell is anyone supposed to help me get through it, then?”

“Then tell someone the basics. Someone close to you committed suicide, and your best friend went on a revenge-fueled quest to kill the man who drove her to it. The only friends you had left betrayed you horribly, left you broken and in despair and alone. You find it hard to trust people now. You still have nightmares, every night, years later. They wake you, screaming, because they’re so real. Does that sound about right?”

Durbe brushes a hand across his face to wipe the tears away. Once again, he can’t look at Nasch. “You forgot the part where everyone I ever loved died in front of me, which is what I see and hear and smell in my nightmares, or the part where I’m stabbed to death, which is what I _feel_ in them.”

“Yeah, well, that would be a little more complicated to explain, probably.”

“Or—” Durbe squeezes his eyes shut. He’s already managed to say this much; why not go on? Nasch should hear it from Durbe’s own mouth, anyway, even though he probably already knew. “Or the fact that my best friend was the first and only man I ever… I ever…” Maybe it’s harder to say than he thought, but Nasch is silent and, Durbe wants to believe, is watching him patiently. He presses the palm of his hand into his forehead. “You were my first and only and I…I loved you, Nasch, I loved you then and I—and I— _now_ and I wish all the time that I could just—just forget everything that happened between us so it didn’t hurt so goddamn _much_ knowing that it’ll never be like that again.”

There’s a lengthy pause and Durbe doesn’t dare open his eyes because he knows if he’s made himself uncomfortable, he’s sure as hell made Nasch uncomfortable.

Nasch exhales, loud and slow, and when he speaks it’s in an uncharacteristically small voice. “Back then, in our first life, I fought Vector and came out of that labyrinth… and all I saw were bodies. Everywhere. Hundreds of them.”

Durbe remembers; he would never forget. They had covered the grassy battlefield like poppies, blood seeping deep into the soil, pooling at the surface when there was too much of it to soak in anymore. Insects and rats and birds were already feasting on the corpses, chewing away at unseeing eyes and exposed innards. The stench alone had almost caused Durbe to pass out, but he stayed focused on his mission to find Nasch amidst the carnage, vomiting again and again until all he could bring up were the putrid juices from the bottom of his stomach.

He never found Nasch.

“I looked for someone, anyone, who had survived, but there was no one. Not even that… little girl Iris…” Nasch’s voice trembles; Durbe opens his eyes at last and looks over. Nasch isn’t crying—Ryoga Kamishiro doesn’t shed tears—but his eyes are now closed and he holds his arms out as though remembering the feeling of the lifeless child’s body in them. “I carried her,” he goes on after clearing his throat, and his voice is stronger now, “and I looked for you. I looked everywhere, I screamed your name for hours. I thought, _Durbe will be here. Durbe is always there when I need him._ But you weren’t. _Durbe isn’t dead,_  I told myself, over and over again _._ But you must be, because you wouldn’t… you wouldn’t leave me there alone.”

Ryoga Kamishiro doesn’t shed tears, but Nasch does.

“Sometimes I think about what I would have done if you had been there waiting for me,” Nasch goes on. He doesn’t wipe his face. “What would we have done?”

Durbe had gone into Vector’s war fully expecting to die. At the time, he had cursed every deity he knew for making him live when no one else had, had screamed to the heavens with his voice falling only on the deaf ears of the dead around him and the vultures above. Now that he knows he had been spared only so the anger and despair and debilitating loneliness in his soul would fuel Don Thousand, he wishes that he _had_ died there instead. Maybe it would even have been quick.

He wants to tell Nasch that they could have escaped the war on Mahha’s back and flown far, far away, to the ends of the earth, where no one knew them and where they could have lived the rest of their lives together. He wants to tell Nasch that they would have a little farm, near some mountains, perhaps, and take their grains and vegetables to the market during the harvest season and hunker down in the home they built with their own hands in the winter. He wants to tell Nasch that maybe someday they would be able to forget, or maybe that they would at least be at peace.

Instead, he tells Nasch the truth.

“I would have returned to my kingdom,” he whispers, and he’s never felt so miserable in this life, “and died the same way.”

Nasch moves a little closer, puts his hand on Durbe’s. It’s a stilted, uncomfortable gesture with his fingers unbent and no pressure, as if Ryoga Kamishiro isn’t sure how to be comforting and he’s forgotten how Nasch used to do it. Durbe appreciates the gesture all the same. “Your loyalty is something I’ve always admired about you.”

“My loyalty got me killed. Twice.”

Nasch smiles a little at this. He looks around casually—probably checking to make sure they’re alone, Durbe thinks with mild amusement—and his hand relaxes on Durbe’s, more familiar now. “Maybe the third time will be different.” He lets go and climbs to his feet. He looks down at Durbe, the smile still faint on his face, and he pulls _Number 44: Sky Pegasus_ from his pocket. “This is yours.”

Durbe reaches for the card. But just as his fingertips graze it, Nasch grabs his hand, hauls him to his feet, and flings his free arm around Durbe’s shoulders. He’s embracing Durbe in the way only Nasch ever did. “I’m just… worried about you.”

“Looks like our roles have reversed in this life.”

Nasch’s body shakes with laughter as he releases Durbe’s shoulder. He doesn’t let go of Durbe’s hand, and it’s really nice, Durbe thinks, almost like old times. “Do you want to go to a lacrosse match with me?”

They start walking. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a sport, like… soccer, with sticks.”

“Do they… hit each other with these sticks?”

“Well, Mizael’s on the team, so probably.”

Durbe laughs, a full, genuine laugh that hurts his stomach because it’s been so long since he’d done it. And he keeps smiling, because as they walk, they talk, and Durbe can be completely himself and completely at peace, even just for an afternoon. He can enjoy watching Mizael play the game, and when Mizael gets ejected from the match for throwing down his stick and shaking an opponent by the collar of his uniform, he can laugh in disbelief as Nasch covers his face with one hand and shakes his head. He listens to Nasch hiss admonishments at Mizael after the match about how they needed to “blend in” better than that, and Durbe can offer advice, the way he used to when he led the Barian Emperors, for things Mizael can do instead of resort to violence when someone pulls Mizael’s hair. Mizael is disappointed and annoyed and, Durbe suspects, will take absolutely none of it to heart.

Time goes by too fast, but then, time with Nasch always did, and Durbe finds himself at his apartment door, fiddling with his keys, and Nasch is standing there still— _I’m going to walk you to your door_ , he’d decided even after Durbe explained that it wasn’t necessary—and Durbe takes his time inserting his key in the lock and opening the door.

“Well,” he says finally, because he can’t delay the inevitable for much longer, “I—”

“I hope you had a good night,” Nasch interrupts, staring at the door number next to Durbe’s head.

“I did,” Durbe says slowly, and then, after a heartbeat, “thank you.”

“Yeah.” Nasch shoves his hands deep in his pockets again. “Anyway, see you tomorrow. If I see you in the library again when it’s not exam time, I’m dragging you out by your scarf.”

“I’ll have to hide extra well,” Durbe says easily.

Nasch gives a little half-smile smirk thing and turns to go. “Whatever.”

Durbe is struck by sudden inspiration and catches Nasch by the arm. “Wait, one more thing.”

A heavy sigh. “What?”

It’s silly, Durbe knows it—Nasch will think so, too—and if Nasch refuses, Durbe resolves, he won’t do it again, but he at least wants to try one last time. He bends on one knee next to Nasch, who turns crimson and glances quickly up and down the hall.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

Durbe holds Nasch’s hand and, eyes not deviating from Nasch’s, kisses the back of Nasch’s hand. If it was possible for Nasch to turn one shade redder, he would have, Durbe suspects. “Good night, my king.”

He just wants Nasch to humor him this one time, to return the custom the two of them had, once, and maybe he is a little surprised when Nasch does.

“Good night, my knight,” he mutters, still not looking at Durbe, and he pulls his hand away, shoves it back in his pocket, and hurries down the hall without another glance back.

* * *

 

The next night, Nasch lets Durbe take his hand without protest.

“Good night, my king,” Durbe recites dutifully, because a knight is _always_ dutiful and follows custom to the letter.

“Good… good night, my knight.” It’s still a mumble and he still hurries away afterward, as though embarrassed that he might be seen by someone he knows, but Durbe catches him turn his head just enough to see Nasch look back at him before disappearing down the stairwell.

* * *

 

By the end of the twenty-third night, Nasch holds out his hand when they reach Durbe’s door. Durbe bends on one knee, kisses Nasch’s hand, and recites his words. He expects Nasch to say his part and leave, but there’s silence and he half-glances upward.

He freezes when Nasch pulls Durbe’s hand to his own lips and kisses it, because that…

…reminds him of the first time they had _actually_ kissed, back then.

And when Nasch bends down to brush his lips over Durbe’s, it feels like the first time all over again, and maybe it is, because instead of King Nasch and Sir Durbe, it’s Durbe The Depressed Asthmatic High School Student With No Real Family Name and Ryoga ‘Shark Probably Sounded Like A Cool Nickname To A Ten Year Old’ Kamishiro, but Durbe is surprisingly okay with that, because Nasch still pulls him to his feet and whispers _good night, my knight_ in his ear before he leaves Durbe leaning on the doorframe with his heart fluttering and his legs like overcooked rice noodles, and every time after that Durbe can’t help falling for him again and again and again and again— 


End file.
